The morning was passing quickly enough. Margaret sat at her work in her mother's room as Mrs. Hale slept. Though she had received little rest herself the night before, she was glad to sit with her. After the chaos and misery of the previous day, Margaret had determined to keep her mind occupied. She would attend to her mother once she awoke, and then would visit Bessy in the afternoon.
She would not think of John Thornton until he was before her face, and who knew when that would be? But the effort to dispel him from her mind only served to anchor him there more firmly. From time to time a hot flush spread over her face. Her only relief was that her mother did not see it. But she would be all right, as long as she did not have to see him.
Dixon softly entered the room and beckoned to Margaret to join her in the hall. Margaret rose as quietly as she could, and when the door was closed behind her, Dixon made free to speak. "Mr. Thornton is downstairs in the study, Miss. He asked to see you."
Margaret paled. "He asked for me? Not for papa?"
"No, Miss, for you. And master has gone out."
Dismayed at his presence in her home, she bemoaned her ability to summon him by thought alone. However, she had to resign herself to seeing him. "Thank you, Dixon. I will go down." But her step was slow and hesitant. All of her conflicting thoughts came rushing in upon her, and she was afraid of his purpose in coming. She stopped before the door, taking deep breaths and ordering herself to be composed and strong before him.
As she entered the study, her resolve nearly shattered. His back was to her and he had not remarked her coming, quiet as it had been. But to be so close to him, watching him look out the window, her heart ached with longing and sorrow. How could she possibly speak to him in a rational manner when he was able to discompose her with only his back? He must have sensed her entrance, because he turned from the window, his expression softening on seeing her. His stiff frame relaxed to a small degree, and she wondered she had not noticed that he was tense. He did not smile, but fixed her with his intent stare that made her weak in the knees, the suppressed passion unmistakable in his eyes. He seemed about to speak, but he was not able to find even words of greeting. And she could not speak for the weight on her chest as she drank in the sight of him. Would she be able to control the urge she felt to launch herself into his arms?
Finally he moved toward her, and the thought that he would repeat his actions of yesterday made her heart race and her breath quicken. A knot of excitement and anxiety took hold of her stomach as he drew closer; she was ready for his embrace. Indeed he seemed intent on just such behavior for a moment, but he walked past her to shut the door. He was so near and she was overwhelmed, finding it difficult to recall anything she had determined last night to say to him.
He had been sorely tempted to hold her to him. Before she came in the room, he imagined how it might be, how he would declare his love and she would nestle herself in his arms. He imagined claiming her lips in a kiss that would not be infuriatingly brief and distracted by impending danger, but lingering and sweet. He felt her presence rather than heard her, and he could only stare in rapture at the sight of her, barely restraining himself from advancing upon her. He could have breathed her in when he was so close to her. But he would not be hasty; he would say everything he practiced and not allow himself to be governed by wild carelessness. He would not do Margaret such dishonor. He stepped away from her.
"Miss Hale, I fear I was very ungrateful yesterday."
"You have nothing to be grateful for," she cut in quickly. "What I did . . ." she hesitated, as she needed to clarify which reckless act she meant, ". . . in the yard was only natural instinct. Any woman would have done the same."
"I do not believe that, Miss Hale. I know your sense of compassion, but not all women share that virtue with the same depth. You shall not stop me from professing my gratitude. I believe I owe my very life to you, and I am profoundly thankful for that."
Margaret would not accept such thanks; she felt another responsibility that negated any gratitude she may have earned. "You, owe your life to me? I am the one who sent you into the danger. I endangered your life, Mr. Thornton, so I do not deserve your thanks. I do not care to hear it."
He was confused and surprised by her indignant response. Why was she fighting him? "You are not responsible for my going out; it was I who chose to heed your words, true as they were. And no matter what responsibility you feel for my being in the fray, you still came and protected me from harm."
"I am ashamed of my actions, Mr. Thornton!" she cried. She spoke impulsively to stop his gratitude, and was rewarded by the stricken look on his face as he stepped further back.
"That cannot be true," he spoke haltingly. Did she mean her actions among the rioters only, or was she ashamed at everything? Was she ashamed by the same event that had made him rejoice, that was the only balm to that miserable day? He was afraid to ask. He did not want to know the answer.
She knew what was in his mind, but she could not acknowledge it. Her hasty words took her thoughts in a different direction, and she did not want to give in to physical weakness and desire without making herself clear. She wanted his defense before she would directly refer to their illicit embrace.
"You did not need me to protect you, Mr. Thornton, you clearly had the matter well in hand," she said coldly.
"Yes, which is why you ran out and shielded me from harm," was his sarcastic and bitter reply.
"You did not need me!" she repeated. "You had already sent for the soldiers to 'bring them to reason.'"
So that was it, he realized. That was the heart of the matter for her, that he had taken measures to protect his family and employees from just such violence as had occurred. His face hardened as he said, "Would you have me leave the Irish and my family open to fear and injury, then? You approve of their violence; you think I got what I deserved?"
"No, of course not! But they were desperate. Poor souls driven to the brink, and you waited calmly and coldly for them to be beaten down."
"How would you have me behave, Miss Hale?" he exploded. "When all else is chaos, am I to let down all of those who look to me for guidance and safety? If I lost my head and gave in, they would be disadvantaged and unprotected. Their fear would be the greater if I did not conduct myself in the manner I did. You are determined to think the worst of what I do and why I do it. You are unfair and unjust."
Her temper lessened at his accusation, feeling how similar his charge of her wilful judgment was to her own fears of what Fanny and others thought of her actions. She recognized that he had done right by those under his protection, so she would grant him his argument that he did what must be done to guard his family and workers, that he had little choice in how he responded to the rioters. But there was still that anger within her, fueled by a prejudice she had not rid herself of yet.
"But why could you not talk to them first?" she asked in a quieter tone, but no less rigid.
"I thought that was what I did." He also had lowered his voice, and matched her sharpness word for word.
"Perhaps, but I saw you and heard you." This was, of course, not entirely true. "If you would only reason with them kindly, I'm sure they would –"
"Reason!" he exclaimed. "You think they could have seen reason from anything I would say? Look at the reason they had with you!" He could not be forgiving to those who would viciously hurt an innocent woman, much less Margaret. "Look how they repaid your kindness!"
He strode up to her and pushed her hair aside to reveal the wound. His voice became a whisper. "This is here because you wanted to show them sympathy and calm them. And look what they did to you."
His hasty touch had startled her into a temporary silence, and she saw his raw pain. Almost she gave in, wanting to comfort him. But a good part of her ire was still up, and she refused to be dissuaded. She moved away.
"They did this to me because they had been driven mad with hunger and suffering. How could I not have sympathy for them? Yet you would blame me for that sympathy. You would hold it against me, though I protected you from them. See, I was not so blinded by their plight as to be ignorant of what they could do to you. And what must you think of me, insisting on thanking me for following natural instinct? You must think that my conduct was a personal act between you and me!"
His face went red. "I know that what you did in the yard was only out of your sense of compassion and justice. I do not deny that. But you cannot deny that what happened between us before I went out there certainly was a 'personal act.'"
Finally they had come to it, that reckless, ill-advised, wonderful kiss. He wondered how they had avoided it this long, but no longer would it go unsaid. Her face blushed crimson at his words. He was confused and dismayed at this heated battle. He had hoped when they spoke of that moment it would bring joy. But instead he had hurled the memory of it at her in anger, making it sound like an denunciation. Once more he had to quiet his voice, calm his raging heart. She looked down at the floor while he struggled for control.
"So you are here because of that." She spoke low. Her insecurities were realized; he had only come because he was bound by honor. This thought filled her with a weary sorrow that deflated her previous anger. Why had it come to this? Why, when they argued so furiously about the rioters and the strike, why was this what mattered to her most? Despite her obstinate arguments, she would have forgiven him everything if he only would forget society's demands.
He misunderstood what made her lower her voice and straightened, wanting to move beyond the hurtful arguing. Taking a breath, he replied, "Yes, I am." Now that it was in the open, he would not be stopped from telling her his feelings. No matter what had been said up to this point, he still loved her, and still wanted to make things right between them.
"To rescue me," she said dully.
His brow furrowed in confusion. "Rescue you?"
She raised her head. "Yes, to save me. Because you are now bound in honor." Her words were bitter and her tone was becoming angry again.
"That is not why I am here," he said with some menace in his voice. He had not meant to speak in such a way, but they were well in the habit of anger this morning, and it was becoming easier each moment to raise their voices.
"Oh, no? You are not here to perform a duty because of that personal act?" She spoke ever higher.
"It is no duty," he insisted, also higher.
"Why do you lie to me? I know why you are here. You are here to offer for me; you are here to rescue my reputation!"
"I am here to offer for you, Margaret, but I gave no thought to your reputation! I only gave thought to how I love you!" His voice was still heightened, but at his final words, his desperation broke through. She had to know why he was there, and what truly drove him to her. She must know that he loved her!
She froze at his declaration. A sliver of hope opened in her heart, but she would not give in to it. He spoke of love to her, but he could not be sincere. "You don't mean that. You only seek to have –"
He would not let her finish. "I do mean it. I wish to marry you because I love you! I do not care about honor or duty or what any gossip-mongers might say. I love you, as I don't believe man ever loved woman before. And I believed there was a chance that you might love me."
"Because of that personal act?" she asked with feigned scorn, wanting to mask her rising hope in him.
That blasted phrase! "Because of everything! Can you deny that you have changed toward me?" She turned away to face the wall; hearing his pleading was too much. If she continued to look at him, she would admit how shameless her desires were, how much she wanted him. This was her last resort to resist him. "Walking together, the dinner, my visits to your home? I have seen you, Margaret." Would he stop saying her name? "I know you feel for me, as I feel for you. I know you care for me." He hesitated. "As for that kiss, I thought it was another sign that you could love me, but that would not be the first time I was mistaken in you. And clearly you regret that it happened."
She whirled to face him. "Regret it? How could I regret it? I don't – I don't!" She was stumbling over her words again, but at least she had finally halted his hypnotic voice, his hopeful words. "I just can't let it happen again. I am unworthy of you." He made to contradict her, but she went on. "I am, I am unworthy because I want it again; I want it all the more, wanton that I am. I can't let it happen again, but I want it. I want you. I want to be near you, I want you to hold me and kiss me and call me Margaret. I want it." Her voice died away, her eyes widening in shock at the brazenness of her less-than-eloquent speech.
Her confession stilled anything he was about to respond with as he was shocked into silence himself. All coherent thought left him. The former indignation in her expressive eyes was replaced by an intense longing, one that matched the feeling in his breast. There was no thought anymore as he reacted instinctively. He had crossed the room in quick strides, his arms had encircled her waist; he did not hesitate now as his lips were upon hers.